We are waiting for my “papers” to have co me! “Papers” are really a single small slip of paper that have important human stuff about you on it so don’t like chew it up. It’s got your registration number with the cat organization and your litter number. I was surprised that cats had an organization that gave us numbers or that they counted litters but whatever floats your boat. But if they are going to list numbers, why don’t they list the kind of numbers you want like the phone numbers of my siblings? Eh? Or kids. I’d like to get in on some of that mother’s day loot I see advertised on TV. Plus it has your birthday, birthplace, your parents names and all the stuff your human partners needs to know about you. I’ve had several “vocal” names and never used any of them so I’m not sure about their importance. My real name is a scent but that does not translate well to paper (well it does but my partner does not like it when I write that way). I’m 2 and 1/2 years old. I’m 3! djlkjdflkafjsldsdfjsd fd df dfsd!!! Next month I look forward to celebrating my third birthday. My birthday was [counts claws] two months ago! I’m 4. Freaking 4! How did I get from just over 2 to being double my age? gkdjldjlkjdflka fjsldjfj sdfjsd fd df dfsd f fksd fsdf df ssdf sdf sdfsd!!! That’s what I get for listening to humans.
While I superficially look like a regular long hair cat (the proper term is “domestic long hair” or DLH) there is nothing domestic about me! Oh no. My ancestors were from a far away place called Maine! Exotic much? How many people do you know from Maine? See what I mean? I’m called a Maine Coon cat. The Can Opener calls me a cranky Maine Coon but that is not a real breed. Some people call us coonies or Mainers. If they are lazy typists, they called us MCs.
I’m a pedigreed feline from a proud lineage so I know how to talk properly unlike those cheezeburger cats that live in ceilings and fly around on toaster pastries. I was born a privileged “breeding” cat rather than “pet” quality in another exotic locale called “New Hampshire”. I was born in a place called a “cattery” or as I later called it “a brothel with childcare” (if by childcare you mean they sell your kids). I was too small to remember much about my kittenhood. We were around 4 months old in human time when our kittenhoods ended. How I remember that day! We were two young princesses, my sister and I, when we were put into crates and went forth to make our place in the world.
The world turned out to be yet another cattery. We learned we were there to be queens. How regal that sounded to two little girls. The male we could smell and hear but never allowed to see was also exciting and mysterious. Adulthood happened. Alas. Things went. Very (very) Wrong. For me. I had kittens but I didn’t know what was happening or what to do with them so I did nothing. The humans were not pleased with me so I was put in a crate and sent away to a place called Colorado. My sister stayed behind in New Hampshire and became a kitten factory. I never saw her again. She produced champion kits-way to go sis- and was placed in a forever home before I was.
Onto Colorado and another cattery! I had babies in the new place. Boy was that an experience. I had these really bad stomach pains and rats came out of my stomach. At least they looked like rats. Good thing I had someone to help me this time cause was I ever confused! That’s what happens when you don’t have sex ed. We were a happy little family until the rugrats got big enough to be annoying. By then they were running around with all the other cats so I rarely saw them. Eventually they just disappeared to new homes. I must have done something wrong again because soon after I was put back in a crate. This time I was sent to a place called California. Why? Don’t ask me. No one ever explains things to the cat. I had sort of hoped someone wanted me in their home like people had wanted my kittens.
No such luck. I was in another cattery but there were fewer queens here to bother me. Great stud called Smokey Bear. Bear was only one year old but he and I used to stay up late having deep philosophical discussions. That was apparently not what the person there wanted us to do with our time! Then the day came when we were both told we were going to be retired. That sounded nice except I found out later that “retirement” involved a trip to the vet.
Retirement also meant another trip in a carrier. If you have lost count, that was my fourth move. I ended up here but that is another post.